There is something about poverty
that smells like death.
Dead dreams dripping off the heart
like leaves in a dry season and
rotting around the feet;
impulses smothered too long in the
fetid air of underground caves.
The soul lives in a sickly air.
People can be slave-ships in shoes.
-- Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Dirt Road,
(arranged)
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